


Skin

by SparklingDragonTears



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: CSP, Dermatillomania, Gen, Hint of Sterek, M/M, OCD, Sheriff's name is John, compulsive skin-picking, could be pre-slash, helping but not helping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparklingDragonTears/pseuds/SparklingDragonTears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was something that everyone knew about, but no one really discussed. That was, until a certain brooding werewolf demanded to know why Stiles always had the faint smell of blood about him.</p>
<p>-or-</p>
<p>Snapshots into Stiles' life as he deals with OCD and people who think they're helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

**Author's Note:**

> While this work is not extremely graphic, it could be triggering. Deals with Dermatillomania, or compulsive skin-picking. I chose not to make it graphic, because it's the first time I've ever written about it and I wasn't sure how people would respond. 
> 
> W: Could be OCD triggering, Maybe-if-you-squint pre-slash, Language
> 
> D/c: Of course I don't own TW or any of the characters.

Scott wasn’t sure how long it took him to notice. Stiles always seemed to have more bug bites than anyone else he knew. The scabs never quite seemed to heal and he rarely saw his best friend without a hoodie on, regardless of how hot it was.

They were eleven, hanging on the monkey bars after lunch when Scott first mentioned it out loud. They were watching the other kids play kickball off to the side of the school yard, commenting once in a while when someone missed the ball or made a terrible throw. Scott watched out of the corner of his eye as Stiles’ hand pushed his sleeve up a little at a time and his nails started catching on the corners of a scab at his wrist.

“You really shouldn’t do that, you know…” Scott tried to sound casual, keeping his eyes mostly on the game. He saw Stiles freeze, shove his sleeves down to his fingertips, and stuff his hands in his pockets as subtly as he could.

“I’m not-“ Stiles automatically began protesting. Scott cut him off quietly.

“Stiles, I’m your best friend. I’m just worried about you.” He watched Stiles swallow and turn his face away.

“It’s fine, Scotty.” Stiles kept his voice as even as he could. “It’s just itchy, that’s all.” He looked back at Scott, eyes bright and innocent. 

Scott watched Stiles’ face for a moment. Stiles raised his eyebrows expectantly and Scott knew that he had lost before he even started any sort of argument.

“Alright man,” he conceded, trying to sound like it was no big deal. “Just, uh, maybe you should tell your dad?” 

Stiles smirked and nudged his shoulder against Scott’s nearly knocking him off the bar he was perched on.

“Sure,” Stiles grinned, jumping down from the jungle gym. He held a hand out to Scott to help catch him as he jumped down beside him. “C’mon. We gotta get back soon.” 

Stiles dragged Scott back toward the school and that was the end of the conversation.

—

Scott had mentioned it to his mom once. They were thirteen and Melissa was fretting over Stiles wearing a sweatshirt in the summer. Stiles refused to take it off, instead throwing a couple extra ice cubes in his soda. She left it alone, but asked Scott about it later that night after the Sheriff had picked up his son and Scott was lounging on the couch, nibbling the last of the nachos from the boys’ dinner.

Melissa came into the living room and sat beside Scott on the couch, finally relaxing after a long day. After watching commercials for a few minutes, she sighed and caught Scott’s attention.

“What’s up, mom?” He asked, glancing over to make sure she was okay. She smiled to him and he smiled back, turning back to the screen.

“Why does he refuse to part with that sweatshirt?” Melissa asked, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. Scott shrugged.

“His arms.” Scott answered definitively, but this wasn’t satisfying at all to his mother.

“What do you mean, ‘his arms’?” Her full attention was on her son now. 

“The scars,” Scott said off-handedly. Melissa’s heart jumped.

“Scars?” She demanded. “Is Stiles ok?” Scott shrugged again. 

“Always been this way.” He glanced over to his mom, trying not to look worried. “He just…” Scott fumbled for words for a second. “He just, messes with his scabs, that’s all.”

This was only slightly reassuring to her, but it raised more questions than answers.

“Always?” She repeated. Scott just shrugged and turned back to the t.v. 

“He doesn’t talk about it,” Scott said softly. “He won’t answer anyway, so I don’t ask.”

Melissa sighed and ruffled her son’s hair and settled in to watch whatever stupid cartoon he had on, resolving to ask John about it later.

—

The summer was almost over, but Melissa purposely scheduled a pool day for John’s day off before the boys started eighth grade.

“I tell ya,” John grinned to her, throwing his shirt aside and settling into a lounge chair beside the public pool. “This is just what I needed!” 

Melissa laughed and set down her tote bag, sitting on the edge of the chair next to him and digging out sunscreen.

“Scott! Stiles!” She called, just before they made it to the edge of the water. “Sunscreen!” They groaned, but came back to her. She tossed them the lotion and watched them half-ass rub it over their shoulders and noses.

“Can we swim now?” Scott whined. Stiles giggled beside him and Scott threw him a dirty look, which only lasted approximately 3 seconds before he broke down laughing too.

“If you don’t let the lotion dry, you’re gonna get burned.” John warned, but his eyes were closed and he didn’t sound like he particularly cared either way, knowing that they probably wouldn’t listen.

Stiles bounced on his heels for all of 10 seconds before announcing that the lotion was dry. He shoved Scott’s shoulder and ran three steps before cannonballing in the pool. Scott grinned sheepishly at the lifeguard who was glaring at him and pointing to the ‘No Running’ sign. He followed and soon the two were swimming and splashing and lost in their little world.

Melissa watched them for a few minutes, relaxing into her chair. 

“I can hear you thinking from here,” John muttered after she sighed for a third time. She was looking over Stiles and could see the red marks on his arms from where she was. John cracked open his eyes and looked over to her expectantly.

“How are you two doing, really?” She asked. She didn’t need to mention ‘since Claudia’. John shrugged.

“It’s hard.” He admitted. “He’s at that age. Most days are okay, things are getting better. But sometimes…” He trailed a hand over his face and looked out at the boys. “If Scott weren’t here, I don’t think I’d ever see that kid really smile.”

Melissa watched the two quietly for a moment before breaking the silence again.

“His arms…?” She wasn’t sure exactly how to ask, or even what she wanted to say, but John knew. He sighed and sat up to look at her seriously.

“I don’t know what else to do,” he said, trying not to sound frustrated. “I’ve taken him to four different doctors, he says his skin itches, a rash. He has all these soaps and lotions, but they don’t help him.” He was quiet for a second. 

Melissa watched the confusion and worry cross over his face. He licked his lips and took another breath before continuing.

“He refuses to go to counseling,” John sighed. “All I can do is talk when he wants to, not that it’s very often. I can’t make him stop, believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Melissa offered. 

“No,” John shook his head and laid back down again. “Confrontation makes it worse. I don’t know, maybe it makes him think about it more. But I’m sure it’s just a phase.”

Melissa didn’t have anything to say to that. She didn’t want to insult him or imply that he wasn’t helping his son. To be honest, she didn’t know much about this at all. 

“Just, let me know if he gets worse, ok? I want to help.”

“Of course,” John looked over to her and smiled. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing briefly before letting her go. “Thank you.”

She smiled back and watched the boys until she drifted off to sleep in the sun, determined to at least to say something if she noticed the boy hurting himself while in her presence. Maybe she would be able to help a little bit. Maybe it was just a phase.

—

They’re doing their last history assignment for the last week of middle school before finals. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom, Lydia sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed, Stiles sitting against the headboard, legs stretched over half the bed.

“You’re going to get an infection.” Lydia stated, not bothering to look over the top of her book. Stiles jumped, startled by her observation. He jerked his hands into his lap, shaking his sleeves back down to his wrists. 

“I don’t-“ He started, but she cut him off with a skeptical look over her pages before returning to her homework.

“Stiles, you could keep your hands busy by actually doing your assignment.” She sounded annoyed, but Stiles could hear the concern she tried to hide.

“I’m fine, Lyds.” He insisted, bringing his nails up to his mouth to lick off the tiny amount of blood accumulated there. She glanced up and he tore his hands back town to his book before she could say anything about it.

“Stiles,” She tried again, actually putting her book down this time and giving him her full attention. “Look what you’re doing to yourself, sweetie. You’re-“

Stiles cut her off with a roll of his eyes.

“Destroying my arms? Hurting myself? Digging holes in my skin?” He asked rhetorically. “Thank you, I’m aware.” He scowled at her and stuck the end of his highlighter in his mouth, chewing at the cap before staring resolutely at the words on his pages.

A soft hand rested on his knee and he looked up into the sad eyes of the redheaded girl he was madly in love with.

“Do you need help?” She asked carefully, trying not to sound like she was implying anything. Stiles smiled to her and covered her hand with his own for a brief moment. He hesitated for a second, insides trying not to be mortified and screaming to just say yes, help me, I can’t stop, anything really. Instead, he just shook his head.

“It’s fine,” He made himself sound sure. “I promise, Lydia.” 

She stared into his eyes for another moment before squeezing his knee and slipping her hand away from his. She nodded before picking up her book and giving him a once-over.

“Fine, then read your chapter so we can go meet Scott for fries.” She gave him a pointed look and he sighed, trying to focus on the endless rant about the Civil War.

—

He wasn’t sure how it got to this, but he was standing in the bathroom, an hour after he’d told his father he was commandeering the shower, staring at the mirror with bloody fingernails and angry red and pink swollen spots covering his torso. There were a dozen stained pink, alcohol-damp cotton balls sitting next to him on the counter and there was a tight feeling in his chest that just wouldn’t leave.

He jumped and nearly hit his face on the mirror when the door shook with a knock.

_“Are you almost done in there?”_ His father called through the door. 

Guilt shot through him and he chewed on his lower lip.

“No, dad…” He answered nervously.

_“Have you even gotten in the shower yet?”_ John demanded. Stiles was too slow to answer and flinched when his father sighed in exasperation. _“What the hell have you been doing in there?”_ he demanded.

“Nothing! Don’t worry about it,” Stiles snapped back. “I’ll be quick.”

_“Please do,”_ John said, clearly irritated.

Stiles listened to the footsteps head back down the stairs before turning back to the mirror and surveying the damage. He groaned in frustration at the angry bumps all down his arms and chest. He turned and looked at his reflection over her shoulder. His back fared no better than his front. He didn’t see anything else that demanded immediate attention, so he stormed over to the shower, turned it on high and waited for the steam to fill the room while he angrily scooped the used cotton balls into the trash can.

Tomorrow he would be starting high school and his arms were covered in scars and open wounds. God damnit, this year was supposed to be different.

—

They say be careful what you wish for. Freshman year was a hell of a year. Supernatural best friends, magic bad guys, general teenage angst. Throughout all of this, Stiles would up wearing a lot of layers.

Once Scott started figuring out his powers, he started to notice things, new smells and sights and sounds and, as crazy as it sounded, feelings. One night, they were walking around, waiting for some bad guy on some stakeout when Scott turned to him suddenly.

“You’re still doing it, aren’t you?” Scott asked, nostrils flaring and eyes flicking down to Stiles’ sleeves before coming back to his face. Stiles felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Can we not?” Stiles asked, avoiding Scott’s gaze, knowing that he could smell the latest addition to his minefield skin, blood probably still drying. 

Scott was quiet for long enough that Stiles eventually looked up and met his eyes.

“I can’t help it, ok?” Stiles pleaded. “Please, just, leave it alone. I’m fine.”

Scott looked like he was about to protest, but they heard a crash and ducked down out of sight to spy on the latest baddie. 

They said nothing more about it.

—

Stiles had thrown a black henley and long sweat pants on after his shower so his father wouldn’t notice the large circle of raw skin on the inside of his elbow. It started as an awful scab, about the size of a pencil tip. It was uneven and rough and bumpy and raised. He’d dug obsessively at it until it was empty and round and clear and perfect. It also happened to be three times larger than when he’d started. He knew his dad would nag him about it, so it was better just to avoid any confrontation.

He’d rinsed off the tweezers and nail clippers and set them on the counter to dry. Before he left the bathroom, he tucked them away with his cuticle scissors and pocket knife, right beside his cotton balls and rubbing alcohol underneath the bathroom sink.

He avoided looking into the mirror as he turned to leave, fingers already trailing soft circles over the back of his other hand and knuckles, feeling for the tiny scabs from the last time they’d run through the woods. 

Stiles stepped out of the bathroom, picking at his cuticles, when a sharp movement from the corner of his eye made him jump back against the door frame.

He watched Derek’s tall figure crawl through his window with a grin and quickly made a mental note to avoid all short sleeves ever, since apparently werewolves have no boundaries. 

—

Of course, it had become a regular thing, pretty much whenever he came into his room, the werewolf was lurking in one of his corners waiting for him. Something was changing though. Derek seemed to be scowling more than normal and every time Stiles came out of the bathroom after a shower, Derek’s eyes would flash yellow before fading back and following him around his bedroom. He never said anything except whatever it was he’d come to say, but his demeanor was slowly changing and Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of it.

—

His day went downhill from the start. He’d missed his curfew last night and his dad yelled at him at breakfast when he couldn’t explain why he hadn’t come home until 1 a.m. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t just explain about his werewolf friends trying to keep other mythical creatures from killing people. So now he was grounded for the rest of the week, which was only going to get him into more trouble, because hello, supernatural murderers and werewolf best friends. Like hell he’d be staying home.

After school, he and Scott were late to Lacrosse practice and Coach made them run suicides until he deemed them exhausted. It just so happened that Scott’s new powers made it impossible for him to become exhausted and Stiles actually ran until he threw up. He snapped and shouted obscenities at the coach before stomping off the field to the locker room, ignoring his best friend chasing after him. He threw his jersey and pads into his locker, yanking his t-shirt and plaid button-up over himself before jumping into his jeans and leaving without ever answering Scott as he pestered him with positivity. 

He barely walked in the door and his dad was getting on his case for another bad parent-teacher conference, something about him not focusing in class, probably the same thing they always said. His father was asking about upping his ADHD medication and Stiles could feel his frustration boiling to the surface. It took everything he had to hold his tongue. His fists tightened, fingers starting to pick at the edges of his cuticles, ripping the skin away from his thumb nails. 

“I don’t want higher medication!” Stiles yelled at him, stomping his foot like a child.

“Well clearly you need some sort of help!” John yelled back. “You’re dicking around in school, you can’t keep your head on straight, you’re out god-knows-where in the middle of the night doing god-knows-what, and you’re still tearing apart your skin!”

Stiles glared at him, nearly shaking with rage.

“Well I’m sorry my life is so God-damn inconvenient for you!” Stiles felt his nails digging into his palms and couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“Watch your mouth, Stiles.” John was nearing the end of his rope, watching his kid come apart at the seams and refuse any sort of help. “You know I’m just worried about you, you won’t talk to anyone who can help you.”

“I don’t. Need. Help!” Stiles didn’t wait for his father’s reply, he took off up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

He knew he was acting like a spoiled brat. It was just so unfair. Even if he did feel like talking, who the hell was he supposed to talk to? Not like his dad would believe him if he told him he couldn’t focus on school work because he was too concerned about being ripped to pieces by a monster behind his back. 

Stiles threw his bag on the ground and shoved up his right sleeve. He ran his fingers over the uneven skin, feeling for the scab from the scrape he knew was there from last night when he tripped in the woods and scraped up his elbows. The pressure in his chest grew as he found too many imperfections. He ripped off the rough dried blood and ran his fingers over the newly flattened area, a tiny pang of pain and relief shooting through him. He dragged his nails over the surrounding area, finding other tiny bumps and trying to flatten them into perfect skin again. He scraped at as much of his skin as he could reach before getting frustrated when there were no more blemishes to fix on this particular patch of his arm. He was about to move on to his other arm when he heard a sharp tap at his window. Trying not to jump, he casually rolled his sleeve back down and turned to see the leather-clad man sliding open his window and crawling in.

“Hey Der,” Stiles didn’t even bother to hide his tired voice. “It’s been kind of a shit day, so unless you have something to smoke or drink, I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”

Derek looked over the boy with a confused and concerned look. Before he could ask, Stiles held up a hand and flopped down on his bed.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

Derek’s eyes flashed so quickly that Stiles wasn’t sure he really saw it. Derek perched against Stiles’ nightstand with his arms folded over his chest. Stiles squirmed under the man’s gaze.

“Alright, what?” Stiles demanded. Derek’s jaw tensed as he clenched his teeth. “What did I fuck up this time?”

“I heard you and your dad fighting,” he said evenly, testing the mood in the room, hearing it when Stiles’ heart jumped in his chest.

“Sorry about that, “ Stiles sighed. “Told you, shit day.” He threw an arm over his eyes and scooted over, knowing that Derek would soon move to sit beside him.

The werewolf was pretty predictable. He felt the weight dip the side of his bed down as Derek joined next to him, leaning against the headboard.

“Stiles,” the boy knew that tone. He’d heard it all his life. That was the, ‘I’m a concerned adult and you’re a frightened child I want to help’ voice. Stiles didn’t let him get any farther.

“Please, spare me the worry.” He grumbled. “I’m allowed to have a bad day, damnit.” 

“Stiles,” Derek said again, the concerned tone not faltering a bit. He was quiet a moment before softly continuing, mostly to himself. “That’s why he won’t talk about it. Scott knows…” He trailed off for a second causing Stiles to frown and peek out from under his arm.

“Knows what? Talks about what?” He demanded.

“You’re hurting yourself,” Derek answered softly, although it sounded more like a statement to himself. He looked up and met Stiles’ eyes when he smelled the spike of fear from the boy. “You always smell like blood or rubbing alcohol. Scott won’t talk about it, downright lies and says he doesn’t notice.”

Stiles tried to stay calm under the werewolf’s gaze, proud of Scott in the back of his mind for keeping his secret.  
 “You have no idea what you’re taking about, Der,” Stiles tried to sound nonchalant about it, but supernatural hearing always got the better of him.

“Let me see your arms.” Derek demanded, holding out his hands to Stiles. The boy glared at him.

“No,” He replied shortly, tucking his arms around his waist. 

“Let me see.” Derek demanded again, more forcefully. Stiles felt the pull of unfairness again, knowing that Derek would be twice as strong as him without werewolf powers and he was pretty much just testing his luck. After all, he knew first hand that Derek would not hesitate to manhandle him to get what he wanted. Stiles changed tactics.

“I swear it’s not what you think,” He begged. “I’m not fucking cutting myself or anything. I promise!” 

Derek narrowed his eyes. The heartbeat told him it wasn’t a lie, but the anxiety and embarrassment told him it wasn’t the complete truth.

“Don’t make me do it myself.” Derek warned. Stiles groaned. His mind was trying every possible scenario to keep Derek from seeing, but when he got to the possibility of jumping out the window and the werewolf catching him before he hit the ground, he knew he was out of options. He had one final plea.

“If I yell, my dad will come in here and kick you out, you know.” He warned. Derek did not look impressed. 

“Sounds to me like your dad could use some help with you,” He knew it was a low blow, but Stiles infuriated him and sometimes it was just so hard not to snap back at him. “I somehow don’t think he would kick me out if it means stopping whatever this is.” He nodded to the boy’s crossed arms. 

Stiles huffed, but knew he’d lost. He slowly unfolded his arms, but didn’t move them away from his body yet. Derek slowly reached out and took the closest arm in his hands, gently rolling up his purple plaid sleeves as high up Stiles’ bicep as he could push them, uncovering the landscape of broken skin. His eyebrows twitched in surprise, but he didn’t let any other emotion cross his face. Stiles’ breath was coming in shaky sighs. 

“I’m sorry. Please don’t freak out,” Stiles whispered. “I know it’s gross.”

Derek didn’t say anything for a minute, just running his eyes over the boy’s pale skin. It was marred in circular scars, all sizes and ages. Some were raised like burns, some were white with discolor, some were dark, some were just scabbing over. The ones causing the current scent of blood were raw and open, still shining. Derek was certain they extended far past the two feet of skin he could see.

“Shit, Stiles.” Derek finally muttered. “How long-?”

“It’s always been this way,” Stiles murmured. “I can’t help it, it’s just something I do. It’s like OCD, I can’t help it…” Stiles was fighting the sting in his eyes. He could not cry in front of Derek. Absolutely not.

Derek looked up to his face. Before he could open his mouth, Stiles cut him off.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, I’m sure it’s already been said.” He tugged his arm back, but Derek held tight, fingers coming up to trace the scars dotting his arm. Stiles flinched at the gentle contact. He hardly let anyone see them, let alone touch the damaged skin. “I’ve been to a doctor, I’ve been to a therapist, I’ve cut my nails, I’ve worn long sleeves, I’ve played with fidget toys. It just doesn’t stop.”

Derek’s fingers ran down Stiles’ arm all the way to the gnawed-down fingernails.

“Why do you do it?” He asked. Stiles shrugged, staring at the wall across the room.

“It’s stupid.” He mumbled. Derek frowned and reached out his free hand to tip Stiles’ face toward him. Why he cared so much, Stiles couldn’t begin to guess. 

“Tell me?” it wasn’t a demand, and maybe that’s why Stiles chose to answer.

“To fix it, my skin.” Stiles was squirming uncomfortably again. “It’s fucked up, I know. But I see these things that I can fix, imperfections I can remove, so I do. I know it’s counter-productive, don’t tell me, I’ve heard that all before too. It happens when I’m angry or sad or bored or worrying… Sometimes I don’t even know until my fingers are covered in blood.” It felt good to finally say it out loud, but Stiles was terrified. Derek was the only one he’d actually flat-out told. He was positive the man would leave. Who the hell in their right mind would stay with a stupid teenager who takes out his frustration on himself? He may as well be a damn cutter.

Derek didn’t say anything for a long time. Stiles’ breathing started increasing and he could feel the worry and anguish and panic brewing through his veins. His fingers on his free hand automatically reached across his body and up his neck to feel the skin along his hair line, trying to find something he could fix, something to make it better.

It took Derek a second to realize Stiles was doing it, but as soon as he registered the fingers tucked behind Stiles’ ear, he reached over and pulled the hand into his own. He held both of Stiles’ wrists together and brought them closer to himself.

“Stiles,” Stiles’ eyes were wide and nervous. Derek could practically hear the kid trembling. “You can’t keep doing this.” Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pull his hands back.

“I can’t _stop_ doing this!” He insisted, frustration and pain evident in his voice.

“Stiles,” Derek’s calm voice rang through the teen and he slowly brought his gaze back to the older man. “I know. And I’m gonna help you.” Stiles shook his head.

“You can’t,” he sighed dejectedly. 

“I will,” Derek insisted. “I probably can’t fix you.” He agreed, to which Stiles scoffed, because, really? How the fuck is that helpful? “Only you can fix you,” Derek continued, despite Stiles’ skeptical look. “It’s gonna be hard, and you’re gonna mess up, because that’s what OCD is. But I’m gonna help you.” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes, still painfully aware of Derek’s large hands holding his own captive. His fingers were already itching to claw at something.

“How can you help me? I’ve been doing this for years. It’s not just a habit, you know.” Stiles was utterly convinced that it was hopeless. Even if Derek did try to help, he was sure frustration would win over and Derek would abandon him.

“I’ll just keep you busy and be a friend,” Derek said simply. “I won’t nag you about it, I won’t ask about it, but if I see you doing it, I’ll just hold your hands until you lose the urge.”

“And how would you possibly know that?” Stiles was pretty sure Derek didn’t understand OCD.

In response, Derek let his eyes flash yellow for a moment. He grinned and his fangs pointed past his teeth. Stiles swallowed, trying not to let his nerves show.

“What, you’re gonna try to scare me whenever I start?” Stiles shook his head again and tried to pull his hands away, again unsuccessfully. Derek let himself slip back to normal.

“No, dipshit, I can smell it on you when you’re anxious.” Stiles felt stupid at that. Of course Derek could smell it. He could hear his heart too. The stupid monster knew more about himself than he did.

But, to be completely honest, if Derek wasn’t running away by now, if his scars and wounds hadn’t scared him away, if his stupid teenage anxiety still kept the man near, if he was willing to put in the effort, Stiles was willing to _try _have a shoulder to lean on. He was tired of bearing this by himself and there was no way in hell he would put this shit on his dad or Scott.__

“Fine,” Stiles agreed shortly. “But if you get irritated and leave, I wouldn’t blame you.” 

Derek finally let Stiles’ hands go. He looked over the boy carefully. He wasn’t sure why he wanted so badly to fix the kid, but he knew he couldn’t let Stiles keep suffering alone.

“Okay, but just know that if you get grumpy and yell at me,” Derek started sternly, and Stiles glanced over, already feeling helpless. Until Derek honest-to-god _smiled._ “I’m not leaving you alone. I’ll stay and pester you and hold you hands away from your arms even if you’re kicking and screaming and calling me names. So you’ll just have to get used to me.”

Stiles laughed softly and nudged Derek’s shoulder with his own.

“Alright, Sourwolf. Deal.” 

\--

Till next time,  
-J X

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have CSP. It's a pain in the ass and I've been doing it for 15 years. It feels impossible some days. If you suffer too, please feel free to message me or request a story. I find that dark nail polish sometimes helps, because if I start picking, the polish chips and looks stupid. Also good to avoid biting your nails because then there's no stupid little flakes in your teeth!
> 
> It's so hard to find fiction about CSP. It's very overlooked, but I think more people deal with it than expected. If anyone wants more deep and emotional fics about this, shoot a request my way and I'll do what I can. <3


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